John Donne

(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631 / London, England)

John Donne Poems

161. To His Mistress Going To Bed 5/14/2001
162. A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, Being The Shortest Day 5/14/2001
163. An Anatomy Of The World... 5/14/2001
164. Song 5/14/2001
165. Holy Sonnet Xiv: Batter My Heart 1/3/2003
166. At The Round Earth's Imagin'D Corners 1/20/2003
167. Woman's Constancy 1/3/2003
168. Holy Sonnet I: Thou Hast Made Me 1/3/2003
169. Break Of Day 1/3/2003
170. Elegy Xix: To His Mistress Going To Bed 1/3/2003
171. Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go 12/31/2002
172. Holy Sonnet X: Death Be Not Proud 1/3/2003
173. A Hymn To Christ At The Author's Last Going Into Germany 1/13/2003
174. Daybreak 1/4/2003
175. The Flea 1/3/2003
176. A Lecture Upon The Shadow 5/14/2001
177. A Valediction Of Weeping 5/14/2001
178. A Fever 1/3/2003
179. A Burnt Ship 1/1/2004
180. A Lame Beggar 1/3/2003
181. Go And Catch A Falling Star 12/31/2002
182. Confined Love 1/13/2003
183. Good Morrow 1/3/2003
184. The Sun Rising 5/14/2001
185. Air And Angels 1/3/2003
186. A Hymn To God The Father 5/14/2001
187. A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning 5/14/2001
188. For Whom The Bell Tolls 12/31/2002
189. Death Be Not Proud 5/14/2001
190. No Man Is An Island 1/3/2003

Comments about John Donne

  • Shahzeb Azhar Shahzeb Azhar (5/16/2012 6:14:00 AM)

    Hi i don't like poems or story acording to love

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Best Poem of John Donne

No Man Is An Island

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

Read the full of No Man Is An Island

Holy Sonnet X

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

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